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COPYRIGHT,  I909,  BY 

CUPPLES  & LEON  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK 


t 


I can  see  the 
pink  sunbonnet 
and  the  little 
checkered  dress 
She  wore  when  first  I 
kissed  her  and  she 
answered  the  caress 
With  the  written  dec- 
laration that,  ‘ ‘ as 
surely  as  the  vine 
Grew  round  the 
stump,”  she  loved 
me,  that  old  sweet- 
heart of  mine. 

An  Old  Sweetheart  of  Mine. 


And,  to  see  them  old  things  gone 
That  I onc’t  was  bettin’  on, 

In  rale  pint  o’  fact,  I feel 
Kindo’  like  that  worter-wheel, — 

Sorto’  drippy-like  and  wet 
Round  the  eyes  — but  paddlin’  yet, 
And,  in  mem’ry,  loafin’  still 
Down  around  old  Kingry’s  Mill. 

Kingry's  Mill. 


94468 1 


E’S  go  a-visitin’  back  to  Griggsby’s 
Station, 

Back  where  the  latch-string’s  a- 
hangin’  from  the  door, 

And  ever’  neighbor  ’round  the  place 
is  dear  as  a relation  — 

Back  where  we  ust  to  be  so  happy 
and  so  pore! 


Criggsby's  Station. 


Where’s  the  heart  as  mellow  ? 

Where’s  a soul  as  free  ? 
Where  is  any  fellow 

We  would  rather  be  ? 

Just  ourselves  or  none,  boys, 

World  around  and  wide, 
Laughing  in  the  sun,  boys, 

On  the  sunny  side! 

On  the  Sunny  Side. 


There’s  nothin’  much  patheticker’n  jes  a-bein’ 
rich! 


Down  to  the  Capital. 


H!  the  old  swimmin’-hole!  In  the 
happy  days  of  yore, 

When  I ust  to  lean  above  it  on 
the  old  sickamore, 

Oh!  it  showed  me  a face,  in  its  warm, 
sunny  tide, 

That  gazed  back  at  me  so  gay 
and  glorified, 

It  made  me  love  myself,  as  I leaped  to  caress 
My  shadder  smilin’  up  at  me  with  sich  ten- 
derness. The  Old  S Tvimmin  -Hole. 

Now  there  was  a man  ’at  jes  peared  like  to  me, 
’At  ortn’t  a-never  a-died! 

“But  death  haint  a-showin’  no  favors,”  the  old 
boss  said, 

“On’y  to  Jim!”  and  cried: 

And  Wigger,  who  puts  up  the  best  sewed-work 
in  the  shop, 

Er  the  whole  blame’  neighborhood, 

He  says,  “When  God  made  Jim,  I bet  you  He 
didn’t  do  anything  else  that  day 
But  jes  set  around  and  feel  good!” 


Jim. 


E is  fond  of  declaring  “he  don’t 
care  a straw” — 

That  “the  ills  of  a bachelor’s  life 
Are  blisses  compared  with  a mother- 
in-law, 

And  a boarding-school  miss  for 
a wife!” 

But  up  in  his  den  — (Ah,  my  bachelor  chum!)  — 
I have  sat  with  him  there  in  the  gloom, 

When  the  laugh  on  his  lips  died  away  to  become 
But  a phantom  of  mirth  in  the  room. 

And  to  look  on  him  there  you  would  love  him, 
for  all 

His  ridiculous  ways,  and  be  dumb 
As  the  little  girl-face  that  smiles  down  from  the  wall 
On  the  tears  of  my  bachelor  chum. 

My  Bachelor  Chum. 

Wi’  brimming  lip  and  laughin’  ee, 

Thou  shookest  even  Grief  wi’  glee, 

Yet  had  nae  niggart  sympathy 
Where  sorrow  bowed, 

But  gavest  a’  thy  tears  as  free 

As  a’  thy  gowd.  To  Robert  Burns. 


ANSIES!  Pansies!  How  I love  you, 
pansies! 

Jaunty-faced,  laughing-lipped, 
and  dew-eyed  with  glee: 

Would  my  song  might  blossom  out 
in  little  five-leaf  stanzas 
As  delicate  in  fancies  as  vour 

j 

beauty  is  to  me! 


Pansies. 


Sleep,  little  one!  the  twilight  folds  her  gloom 
Full  tenderly  about  the  drowsy  Day, — 

And  all  his  tinseled  hours  of  light  and  bloom, 
Like  toys,  are  laid  away. 

Slumber  Song. 


I’ve  alius  noticed  grate  success 
Is  mixed  with  troubles,  more  or  less, 
And  it’s  the  man  who  does  the  best 
That  gits  more  kicks  than  all  the  rest. 

Mp  Philosofy. 


E laughed  away  the  sorrow, 

And  he  laughed  away  the^  gloom; 
We  are  all  so  prone  to  borrow 
From  the  darkness  of  the  tomb; 
And  he  laughed  across  the  ocean 
Of  a happy  life,  and  passed, 

With  a laugh  of  glad  emotion, 

Into  Paradise  at  last.  The  Funny  Little  Fellow . 


No  man  is  grate  tel  he  can  see 
How  less  than  little  he  would  be 
Ef  stripped  to  self,  and  stark  and  bare 
He  hung  his  sign  out  anywhere. 

My  Philosophy. 

As  it’s  give’  me  to  perceive, 

I most  certin’y  believe 

When  a man’s  jist  glad  plum  through, 

God’s  pleased  with  him,  same  as  you. 

Neighborly  Poems. 


THE  Raggedy  Man!  He  works  fer 
Pa; 


AiT  he’s  the  goodest  man  you 
ever  saw! 


An’  waters  the  horses,  an’  feeds 
’em  hay; 


He  comes  to  our  house  every  day, 


An’  he  opens  the  shed  — and  we  all  ist  laugh 
When  he  drives  out  our  little  old  wobble-ly  calf, 
An’  nen  — ef  our  hired  girl  says  he  can  — 

He  milks  the  cow  for  ’Lizabuth  Ann. — 

Ain’t  he  a’  awful  good  Raggedy  Man  ? 

Raggedy!  Raggedy!  Raggedy  Man! 


It’s  nachural  enugh,  I guess, 

When  some  gits  more  and  some  gits  less, 

For  them-uns  on  the  slimmest  side 
To  claim  it  ain’t  a fare  divide. 

And  I ’ve  knowed  some  to  lay  in  wait, 

And  git  up  soon,  and  set  up  late, 

To  ketch  some  feller  they  could  hate 

Fer  goin’  at  a faster  gait.  My  Philosophy. 


HE  old  man  worried  on  till  July 
came  at  last,  and  with  it  that  most 
glorious  day  that  wrapped  the  baby- 
nation  in  its  swaddling  clothes  of 
stripes  and  stars  and  laid  it  in  the 
lap  of  Liberty.  jod. 

The  dear  old  flag  whose  faintest  flutter  flies 
A stirring  echo  through  each  patriot  breast, 
Can  never  coax  to  life  the  folded  eyes 
That  saw  its  wrongs  redressed — 

That  watched  it  waver  when  the  fight  was  hot, 
And  blazed  with  newer  courage  to  its  aid, 
Regardless  of  the  shower  of  shell  and  shot 
Through  which  the  charge  was  made; — 

And  when  at  last  they  saw  it  plume  its  wings, 
Like  some  proud  bird  in  stormy  element, 

And  soar  untrammeled  on  its  wanderings, 

They  closed  in  death  content. 


The  Silent  Victors. 


EX!  What  a sumptuous  darkness  is 
the  Night! — 

How  rich  and  deep  and  suave  and 
velvety 

Its  lovely  blackness  to  a soul  like 
mine! — 

Ah,  night!  thou  densest  of  all  mysteries! — 

Thou  eeriest  of  unfathomable  delights, 

Whose  soundless,  sheer  inscrutability 
Is  fascination’s  own  ethereal  self, 

Unseen,  and  yet  embodied — palpable, 

An  essence,  yet  a form  of  stableness 

That  stays  me — weighs  me,  as  a giant  palm 
Were  laid  on  either  shoulder. — Peace!  I cease 
Even  to  strive  to  grope  one  further  pace, 
But  stand  uncovered  and  with  lifted  face. 


Jurfylet — in  the  Flying  Islands  of  the  Night. 


HIS  is  the  way  the  baby  slept: 

A mist  of  tresses  backward  thrown 
By  quavering  sighs  where  kisses 
crept 

With  yearnings  she  had  never 
known: 

The  little  hands  were  closely  kept 
About  a lily  newly  blown — 

And  God  was  with  her.  And  we  wept. 

And  this  is  the  way  the  baby  slept. 

The  IV  ay  the  Baby  Slept . 

Give  me  the  baby  to  hold,  my  dear — 

To  hold  and  hug,  to  love  and  kiss. 

Ah!  he  will  come  to  me,  never  a fear — 
Come  to  the  nest  of  a breast  like  this, 

As  warm  for  him  as  his  face  with  cheer. 

Give  me  the  baby  to  hold,  my  dear! 

Give  Me  the  Baby. 


OON-TIME  and  June  time,  down 
around  the  river! 

Clean  out  o’  sight  o’  home  and 
skulkin’  under  kivver 
Of  the  sycamores,  jack-oaks,  and 
swamp-ash  and  ellum  — 

Idies  all  so  jumbled  up,  you  can 
hardly  tell  ’em!  — 

Tired,  you  know,  but  lovin’  it,  and  smilin’ 
jest  to  think  ’at 

Any  sweeter  tiredness  you’d  fairly  want  to 

drink  It.  Down  Around  the  River . 


Soak  your  hide  in  sunshine  and  waller  in  the 
shade  — 

Like  the  Good  Book  tells  us — “ where  there ’re 
none  to  make  afraid!” 

Well!  — I never  seen  the  ocean  ner  I never 
seen  the  sea  — 

On  the  banks  o’  Deer  Crick’s  grand  enough 

fer  me!  On  the  Banins  o*  Deer  Cricfy. 


HEN  the  face  of  the  Mother  looks 
back,  through  the  mist 
Of  the  tears  that  are  welling; 
and,  lucent  with  light, 

I see  the  dear  smile  of  the  lips  I 
have  kissed, 

As  she  knelt  by  my  cradle  at  morning  and 
night; 

And  my  arms  are  outheld,  with  a yearning 
too  wild 

For  any  but  God  in  His  love  to  inspire, 

As  she  pleads  at  the  foot  of  His  throne  for  her 
child, — 

As  I sit  in  the  silence  and  gaze  in  the  fire. 

Envoy — Rhymes  of  Childhood. 


Just  tired!  * * * But  when  of  old  I had  the 
stay 

Of  mother-hands,  O very  sweet  indeed 
It  was  to  dream  that  all  the  weary  way 

I should  but  follow  where  I now  must  lead. 

An  Out-Worn  Sappho. 


HAVE  jest  about  decided 

It  ’ud  keep  a town-boy  hoppin’ 
Fer  to  work  all  winter,  choppin’ 
Fer  a*  old  fire-place,  like  I did! 
Lawz!  them  old  times  wuz 
contrairy ! — 

Blame’  backbone  o’  winter, 
’peared-like 
Wouldn’t  break!  and  I was  skeered-like 

Clean  on  into  Feb’uary! 

Nothin’  ever  made  me  madder 
Than  for  Pop  to  stomp  in,  layin’ 

On  a’  extry  fore-stick,  say  in’, 

“ Groun’-hog’s  out  and  seed  his  shadder!” 

Old  V/ inters  on  the  Farm. 

O the  days  gone  by!  O the  days  gone  by! 

The  music  of  the  laughing  lip,  the  lustre  of  the  eye; 

The  childish  faith  in  fairies,  and  Aladdin’s  magic 
ring  — 

The  simple,  soul-reposing,  glad  belief  in  every- 
thing.— 

O 


Month  a man 
kin  railly  love — 
June,  you  kn 
I ’m  talkin’  of! 

Knee  Deep  in 


Just  as  of  old! 
The  world  rolls 
on  and  on; 

The  day  dies  into 
night — night 
into  dawn  — 
Dawn  into  dusk 
through  cen- 
turies untold. 

Envoy 


E will  sing  across  the  meadow, — 
and  the  woman  at  the  well 
Will  stay  the  dripping  bucket  with 
a smile  ineffable; 

And  the  children  in  the  orchard 
will  gaze  wistfully  the  way 
The  happy  song  comes  to  them, 
with  the  fragrance  of  the  hay; 

The  barn  will  neigh  in  answer  and  the  pasture 
lands  behind 

Will  chime  with  bells,  and  send  responsive  lowings 
down  the  wind; 

And  all  the  echoes  of  the  world  will  jubilantly  call 

In  sweetest  mimicry  of  that  one  sweetest  voice 
of  all.  77ie  Poet  of  the  Future. 

They’s  been  a heap  o’  rain,  but  the  sun’s  out 
to-day, 

And  the  clouds  of  the  wet  spell  is  all  cleared  away, 

And  the  woods  is  all  the  greener,  and  the  grass 
is  greener  still; 

It  may  rain  again  tomorry,  but  I don’t  think  it 

Thoughts  for  the  Discouraged  Farmer. 


He  was  warned  ag’inst  the  womern — 

She  was  warned  ag’inst  the  man, — 

And  if  that  wont  make  a weddin’, 

W’y,  they’s  nothin’  else  that  can! 

On  a Splendid  Match . 


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